Saying "goodbye" to comfort

Sweet Annie,

Today your pacifier "broke" and you placed it into the trash can before nap time and reminded me that Daddy promised you a new baby doll from the store to mark this milestone.

I then helped you get cozy in your crib with your favorite blanket, walked out of the room, and listened to you cry and call, "OOOOHHHHH, DADDY.....Oooooohhhhh, Daddy..." for the next hour and a half. I came in periodically to offer a little hug, dry your tears, and help you get cozy again. Then I would walk away, still close enough to hear your discomfort, but far enough that you managed to calm yourself until you could sleep.

This wasn't easy for me, but I know it's what is best for you in the long run. I've done this before, many times, with you and your older siblings, and I'm certain that I'll do it many more times before you are all grown. I make a conscious choice to put aside temporary comfort for long term gain. I weigh the "opportunity cost" and I decide.

Today it's the loss of the pacifier and the instant comfort that comes along with it. With your big brother it's removing the training wheels from his bike, watching him swerve and fall in frustration several times, before he finally masters riding a 2-wheeler independently. With your older sister it's working through the uncomfortable and sometimes awkward silence while I wait for her to respond to someone's question or greeting.

I know it would often be easier, for the moment, to just get a new pacifier and let you drift to sleep quickly, put the training wheels back on the bike to avoid skinned knees and frustration, or answer the question while someone looks timidly from behind my leg.

For you, I don't just want what seems easiest. I want what is best. I want you to learn to deal appropriately with discomfort when it leads to growth. I don't want to intentionally cause you to suffer, but I won't protect you from suffering when I know there is a greater benefit just over the horizon.

Like today, when you are uncomfortable and suffering, I will be close.

I will experience your discomfort as only a parent can. I will wait, as you work through it. I was there today when you finally lay still, except for the occasional shudder, with your eyes closed over tear-streaked cheeks.

I will celebrate when you reap the benefit of persevering.

This was not easy. This was not pleasant. This was not fun. But, this was good.